


Your eve'time song, ye singers

by Owl_by_Night



Series: Twelve days of (multi fandom) Christmas [3]
Category: History Boys (2006)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21956998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/pseuds/Owl_by_Night
Summary: Even though Scripps doesn't make a big celebration of Christmas, there are still some traditions to uphold.
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps
Series: Twelve days of (multi fandom) Christmas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580002
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Your eve'time song, ye singers

Posner, of course, doesn’t celebrate Christmas. Scripps always wants to roll his eyes when people are surprised by it, or think that it might be a problem for them. It’s been the case all their lives and they manage pretty well celebrating both Christian and Jewish holidays in a low key way. Scripps sometimes calls it a blessing that they don’t have to juggle seeing two lots of family over the same holiday the way some of the others do, grumbling about in laws and eating two lots of turkey. 

They’ll have lunch with his family on the day itself. Less a celebration and more of a family obligation, where he will be expected to admire the growth of various young relatives and listen to his mother telling him he’s not feeding Pos well enough because the dear boy is looking thinner than ever. She means it lovingly. Scripps will be keeping one eye on Pos all the same, waiting for the moment he starts to look overwhelmed so that Scripps can make their excuses and they can both slip away. Pos has had one of his bad patches recently. The shortening days often bring them on, leaving Scripps worried but powerless. 

They get through, somehow. They always do. 

Pos is starting to come back to himself now. He was the one who suggested they get the little tree for the sitting room, even though Scripps wouldn’t usually bother, and Scripps heard him humming yesterday while he cooked dinner. That had been two good signs given that when he’s at his lowest, Pos never sings and can go days without a proper meal if Scripps doesn’t cook it and hand it to him. 

So on the whole Scripps is looking forward to celebrating not-really-Christmas this year. He’s going to enjoy having a few days at home, ignoring whatever the rest of the world wants to do until New Year, which both of them celebrate. He’s got a stack of books to read and a few things he wants to do in the house. They moved in a year ago but somehow there’s never quite time. He’s going to make the most of having Posner home too, away from the teaching that he loves but which always makes him tired. 

Before that coveted, cosy time though, some traditions still have to be observed and that means church on Christmas Eve. The walk there is bitterly cold so late at night and his breath sends up clouds of steam. Midnight Mass has always been his favourite of the festive services. Scripps tucks his gloved hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He shares the role of organist with Mrs Thompson, who doesn’t like to be out so late at night now she’s in her eighties and she’d been happy to let him play tonight. 

The vicar greets him warmly as he enters the church and Scripps makes himself useful putting out hymn books until he’s waved away to his seat. He plays for a while to work the last chill out of his fingers, switching on the little electric heater at his feet that buzzes and glows orange as it warms. 

The congregation file in in small groups, well wrapped up against the cold. A few of them smile and nod. He’s an oddity in the village, living with Pos and yet part of the church, but very few of them had anything to say about it once Mrs Thompson took him under her wing. In time he thinks he will become part of this place, that they both will, and it’s a good feeling. 

The vicar gives them a good sermon, full of joy and hope and they belt out O Come All Ye Faithful and wish each other Merry Christmas when the clock chimes midnight. Scripps feels the warmth of it. The rather desperate religious fervour of his youth has mellowed now. He worries less about what God thinks of him, or what he does. He has learnt to do what feels right and trust that it’s good enough. To love and be loved, to be kind and to care and appreciate kindness where it’s offered. What can I give him, but to give my heart, he thinks and smiles up into the cobwebbed rafters of the nave. 

After the service ends, a few of them stay to shut up the church. Scripps goes round extinguishing candles, nose full of hot wax and smoke and greenery. There will be a morning service of course, but Scripps doesn’t intend to be there for that. He wishes the vicar goodnight and puts on his coat and scarf again, tucking his hands into gloves and heads out into the midnight air. 

Sometime during the service the snow that was threatening earlier has begun to fall, spiralling flakes caught in the yellowing light from the church. It’s so cold and silent and beautiful. 

On the wall of the churchyard is a figure, dressed in black but with snow settling white on his shoulders. Posner is instantly recognisable, even if he weren’t wearing the hat that Scripps’ mother knitted for him. So many times he’s sat there, on one wall or another, waiting for the service to end. Scripps feels that little, familiar thrill of joy in his chest at seeing him, a feeling that only gets keener with the years. 

“You’ll catch your death,” he says, crunching over new snow to the wall. 

Posner shrugs and smiles. “I heard the bells and knew you wouldn’t be long.” 

He pushes himself off the wall and tucks his arm into the crook of Scripps’ elbow. Their steps fall naturally into synch with one another, leaving matched footprints across the churchyard. 

“A lot of people were there tonight,” Posner says, leaning a little closer. 

“They always do come at Christmas. Despite the cold.”

“There’s cocoa at home. Thought you might need it.” 

“Ah,” Scripps says, finding Posner’s mitten-clad hand and squeezing it, “I knew there was a reason I loved you.” 

Pos laughs and his laugh is brighter and better than church bells on Christmas morning.


End file.
